Imagine
by Autobot Chromia
Summary: Imagine, if you will, a story with no characters. For each drabble, there is a plot. For each chapter, there is dialogue. For each and every segment of this story, this collection of one-shots and multi-chap drabbles, there are no characters. Imagine your own favorite character for each part, be it canon or OC. Autobot-centric with Decepticon variations. Works for most generations.
1. Simplicity

**Author's Beginning Note- This story is a viewer's interpretation. To read you must fill in the blanks such as what characters are used. 'He' is used by default, femme characters can still be used. Thank you. **

* * *

_Simplicity_

* * *

Imagine, if you will, a countryside. The day is warm, but not too warm, a gentle breeze sweeping through the silky grass like currents in an ocean and bringing with it the scents of springtime. The crisp, soothing scent of life blooming from all corners. The grass is wet, not soaked and sodden, merely damp from a sleepy drizzle that had made their journey all the more enjoyable. The kind of spray that tickled the skin and was absorbed into the hair of tiny creatures, giving them a luster that cannot be captured by an artists stroke.

The flora, blooming crocuses and germinating lilies, have collected the water in their petals, letting it roll down with gravity like tears of joy. The beads, scented heavily with fresh pollen, roll down to the ground to pollinate their sisters the grass leaves. The grass absorbs the nectar filled droplets, their own scent sweetening in turn.

A large shade tree, budding and fuzzy with seed pods to come, casts a lacking shadow over a pair of lovers, lying flat on their backs. One gestures about, pointing at the wispy mares' tails above and the 'cumulonimbus' clouds promising another shower - later, much later. He doesn't care for the science the collective evaporation consists of but the unique image each cloud brings to mind.

"That one looks like that bunny rabbit we saw on our way here." the pointer states with a soft smile, his free hand curled about the bot's beside him.

The other hums in thought, shaking his helm after a moment. "More like a dragon. See the tail and wings?"

"No." the first is adamant, gesturing madly at the clouds as if he were painting the sky. "Those are the ears. What kind of dragon has a cottontail?"

The second shrugs, squeezing the first bot's hand. "Perhaps. I still say it looks like a dragon."

"Bunny."

They share a chuckle, the first rolling onto his side to eye the prettier sight of his lover. How had he ever been so lucky? Perhaps his partner had been the spark-throb of many, or perhaps the outcast of all except his own spark. Perhaps the bot himself had been the one taken in by the other, still dreamily staring up at the puffy clouds.

It slowly dawns on the dreamer that he is being stared at as he is to the clouds and he turns his helm, blinking lazily in the gentle sunlight, a smile on his face. The smile is something precious, perhaps something terribly rare and saved for just this one bot in particular. Perhaps he always has a grin on his face, sharing them with everyone but still manages to light up his lover's worlds with a simple curl of the lips.

He canters his helm carefully, a nervous chuckle coming once from his vents. "What?"

"Nothing." the jack-knifed bot replies, leaning forwards to plant a chaste kiss on his lover's warm, smooth cheek.

The action is simple and sweet, sparking nothing more than an even simpler, sweeter love between them both. There is no sin or lasciviousness in the motion, no worldly interference marring the kindly thought.

Had it been so, darkness seeping into their pure sparks and taking control, the two would have been overcome with lust that the simple kiss had started. They would have latched on, ravishing one another and destroying the perfect scenery of new life all about by selfishly indulging in their own desires. They would have rolled, topping one another, and crushing the fresh grass with their giant, metallic bodies and destroying the lilies of the field before they had even begun to grow.

But as that was not so, the kisser merely lay back against the grass, and pointed up at the next floating picture. "A fish." he stated, tucking his servos behind his helm.

"Wrong again." the second chuckled. "I say it's a whale."

"That's the same thing!"

Bot the second shook his helm. "Actually, a fish is just that: a fish. A whale is a mammal, needing oxygen outside of water to-"

He was rudely broken off by a second, chaste kiss. A shut-up kiss. Their derma left slowly, reluctant to pull apart after so much time they weren't allowed to be themselves. War and fighting, killing and hurting, wounds and healing took this simplicity that all craved away and turned it into a throbbing longing that ate at the spark. A kind of normalcy that came from repeating domestic things again and again, the 'insanity' of doing the same thing again and again and never, ever expecting a different outcome.

"You talk too much." the kiss-enforcer stated, laying his helm against the warm chassis of his lover. By his audio he felt the steady, calming _thump-thump_ of his spark, and shuttered his optics in contentment.

His lover smiled softly as the snuggled bot fell into an exhausted recharge, much taken out of the both of them from the running and the killing and the fighting. They needed this, this trip to the countryside.

This simplicity.

* * *

Author's Note- This idea came to me in my delirium last night as my brain endlessly churns away until 1 AM every night. I've been asked numerous times to write a TFA story by a friend and I have yet to be struck with any sort of genius as to what to do, who to write about, and what the plot should be.

So I came up with this. It's up to you, the viewer, just who these two bots are and from what generation. There will be many more drabbles to come, each written in the same way as this with a themes that correspond with the title of the chapter.

If you read and enjoy, or read and don't enjoy, I only ask that you review- be you guest or member- with who you used. It works with every bot I can think of, except maybe the Decepticons at certain times.

Personally, I always picture Prowl and Jazz. :)


	2. Sorrow

_Sorrow_

* * *

Imagine, of you will, a bedroom. A tiny barracks regulated by the government and barely kept up with the strain on currency war seems to have. The room can be filled with the most humdrum and mundane of knickknacks, little things that hold absolutely no value at any point in time other than sentimentality. Little trinkets and collections of what the owner of the private quarters likes and wants to hold dear to him.

Perhaps, instead of a room well lived in whenever possible and filled with the livelihood of the owner, the room is bare and empty. There is no paint on the walls, other than the mandatory orange it came in. An orange that can't even be passed off as a burnt umber or amber shade, so gaudy and glaring it is. Not a picture is hung on the walls, a holo-cube displayed, or anything other than pads of work neatly lined up on a shelf and stacked on a tiny desk are in the room.

The berth could be a messy thing, blankets and pillows strewn about as if a maelstrom had repeatedly hit it along with her friends the tornado and hurricane. Crumbs are scattered in the blankets, the duvet itself bright and colorful. Or perhaps its a quilt all snug and warm, patchwork and worn with love. It is neatly made and the pillows placed just so, just as his carrier had taught him so long ago. Or even still, the stickler who owns such a room has nothing more than a solid, darkly colored warming blanket and a white pillow hidden beneath it. It is made in a militant manner, and a ten-cent chip could be bounced off any section of it as there are so few, if any, wrinkles.

The time is night, eerily dark and spookily quiet, a new moon or even two new moons invisible in the dark night sky. Not a star shines, nor does a distant planet show its face in the inky blackness that holds absolutely nothing.

It causes one to wonder if there is even anything up there, so lonely, so dark, so depressing it is. The universe was just too humdrum and mundane to hold any other life forms, intelligent or not. It caused one to think, to question his own beliefs. His beliefs if there really was a grand deity up above that protected them and watched out for them.

_No_. he thinks to himself, optics shuttered tight as his hands dig into the blanket with his anguish. _There is no greater power; he would not have allowed such a thing to happen._

Tears sting his shuttered optics, and he sobs into the pillow that has faithfully cradled his helm night after night. His spark aches, throbbing in his chassis and wishes to beat right out of his chest. He wants it to, he wishes to rip it out himself and crush it between his fingers and be done with the life he had been given.

Such a terrible, horrible life, filled with death, destruction, and darkness. His once innocent spark is marred and stained with the sin of killing and murder and darkened with plague. The plague of heart and mind rather than literal disease, but still ate like a cancer. All the lives he'd offlined, the living souls he's crushed and destroyed much as he had today.

But it isn't his own soul he's worried about, at the moment. He doesn't care for the bots he's killed or the souls that cry out his name when asked who had wronged them, at least for now. It's the spark of another that no longer beats, a life that no longer lives, that has his mind and soul in turmoil.

The loss of a friend he had always hoped would have been with him until time's end.

Another sob wrenches through him, and he squeezes the edges of his pillow until the filling inside threatens to burst. So wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own tortured mind, he doesn't even register the sounds of his door being hacked and entered, and locked once more.

He doesn't hear the sigh at the pitch blackness he has allowed the room to stay in, not caring for light in his darkened world. He doesn't feel the berth padding lowering as a second frame seats himself, and only cries all the harder as a hand is placed on his back.

"Shh." the newcomer hushes, low and close to his audio. He murmurs the hurt bot's name, rubbing large circles with the flat of his hand. "It's not your fault."

The bot manages a scoff, choked and strained and full of self-hate at the comforting words. "You don't understand." he cries, pulling the pillow closer to his face. "I led that mission. I should be the one dead, not-" Unable even to say the name, another keen is pulled from him.

He is enveloped in a warm, soothing embrace. The pillow is abandoned, wet and soggy with his tears, for the warm chassis and the feel of a living, beating spark.

_But for how long?_

The thought makes him weep all the harder, clinging to the other like a lifeline that could snap at any moment.

A soft, warm hand strokes his helm, holding him close like the little child he felt like. "It's not your fault." he repeats, "There is nothing you could have done. You've done nothing wrong."

"He was my friend." A pause, vents hitching. "He had a bondmate and a child. I knew them well-they'll blame me. I should have-"

"Shh." a silky digit is pressed to his lips, silencing him immediately. "It doesn't matter who they blame, you're not at fault. You did absolutely _nothing _wrong."

The severity of the words, the hidden passion stemming from the unbiased love for the bot that was cradled, silenced the mourning bot. At least in words. He could not, and refused to, silence his vocalizer and stop the stream of coolant from his optics as a final gift and offering for the friend he lost.

As he lay there, cradled in the servos of the one he loved, he couldn't help but rethink his beliefs once more. Yes, there had to be a great deity looking down and taking care of them, _especially _him. Who else would have planned such a perfect partner to help him through such a time of sorrow?

* * *

Author's Note- Who did you have for the two bots here? The comforter? The mourner? The life lost?

I'm not sure who I have. Again, I see Prowl and Jazz. Jazz being the mourner of a mission gone wrong and Prowl the surprise comforter. The dead bot is just an unnamed mech who fades into the background. Or Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, if you take the love as platonic.

As a final note, the word 'love' is used as default as well as the word 'he'. The love- in most cases- can be used as platonic, romantic, childlike, family, friends, brotherly, sisterly- you get the picture.


	3. Illness

_Illness_

* * *

Imagine, if you will, a bathroom. It could be grand and flamboyant, filled with the richest and most luxurious items one could only imagine to find for such a room. It's very walls could be lined with gold, or a sheen of paint could shine onto a linoleum floor. It could be a very tiny room, just big enough for a stand-in shower, a latrine of sorts, and a sink with cleaning items on it.

The room could be in shambles, half-empty bottles lined up on the sink-top and sticky goo collecting dust. The room could be the epitaph of cleanliness, a remarkable sheen of shine illuminating the entire room and reflecting every bit of light onto the next pristine item.

No matter what, no matter how opposite or different the rooms may be, each have exactly the same things in common. Two that are easily named, and more so to imagine.

The first one is that there is a latrine. Plain and simple, a device used for material waste and the occasional mineral supplement pill the base medic loved to shove down each and every throat he could.

And two - there is a bot hunched over that latrine, fevered and cold and shaky and _miserable_.

It had started off so simple, a single ailment: fatigue. Of course, that could have been absolutely anything. Fatigue was a common complaint on base, and it was even more common to find an exhausted bot passed out on the Rec. Room 'crash couch' after a long day of drills and routines and patrols, the poor bot simply too tired to crawl to his quarters or bunks.

But here there was no berth, or even a pillow, as his armour dug into his protoformed knees and rattled with the shivers he didn't even try to suppress anymore. He was long past trying to put on a brave face and muscle through. There where times to act all big and strong, especially when trying to show off in front of a CO or a cute bot, and there were times you just had to admit your weakness and collapse to the floor in a piteous, twitching pile of metallic protoplasm.

But, back to what had led him to this humiliating state, the fatigue had been fine. Normal even, something anyone with a fully functioning processor could muster through. Then the helmache had started; a small, steady throb by the comm. units and temples that slowly morphed into an optic shattering migraine the more he watched those screens and filed those data-pads.

The berth had never looked so good as it had last night. Or, a few joors ago, as it was still technically that night.

Before berth, he had been hungry. Or something had told he he should eat something, at least. It wouldn't do to wake up the next morning so sluggish and depleted that he made himself an easy target for the local peanut gallery.

But, he wasn't going to have to worry about those nuts and bolts any longer. He had collapsed upon his berth with all the skill and grace of a flyer that had both of his wings shot out, his global positioning system heavily damaged, and a cracked windshield. He had just managed to get the blankets over his pedes before his processor had taken over and put out the lights - his own lights - into a heavy slumber.

Obviously it hadn't been heavy enough, though, as it was only five joors since then and he was wide awake and wishing for a well-aimed photon charge. A photon charge that had been well-aimed at his pounding, throbbing processor.

Something had startled him awake, optics clicking open sharply and the rest of him freezing like one under a certain Seeker's null ray. He had lay there for a moment, optics searching through the darkness while trying to access just what had awoken him from such a needed sleep. His helm still pounded and he was so very tired and drawing a blank as to his rude awakening, he shuttered his optics and sighed.

The sigh quickly grew into a steady breath as he suddenly realized just what had woken him from such a necessary recharge. His tank - the root of his problem. Only now as he tried to settle down and power down did it kick in with a steady churn, rolling about like a piece of paper in the wind. A powerful wind that swirled about, up and down and back and forth, loop-de-looping and barrel rolling about. The poor piece of paper hadn't stood a chance.

Nor had his nauseous tank, bubbling and making terrible noises in his agony. The covers had been thrown off like a molten stick of lead, and a mad dart had landing him directly where he was now: trembling and hoping he didn't purge again.

Such an awful, horrible feeling purging was. It wasn't just the nausea or the general feeling of malaise. It wasn't just the helmache and the exhaustion that made him want to curl up right there on the bathroom floor and go to sleep, it was the constant feeling of purging that loomed over his helm like his own, personal black cloud of plague. A gag that brought up and did nothing except make him feel even worse than he did already - which was something he had thought impossible just moments ago.

Groaning heavily, the bot slumped against the wall, a hand over his grinding tank, and shuttered his optics to that dreadful light that turned that migraine into something more, something unbearable, something that he couldn't even name.

"Not again." he managed to moan before lurching forward to lose whatever was left of that dastardly cube he had convinced himself just joors ago would help him recharge and feel better.

Once finished, he roughly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fell back against his only support - the wall. He shuttered his optics, praying for one of two things.

One - that Primus was merciful and just took his soul right then and there.

Two - that Primus was merciful and let him pass out in a much-needed recharge.

Primus was merciful, the bot's depleted systems offlining with a click as they could no longer could keep his systems awake with so little fuel. The darkness was wonderful, and fully embraced without hesitation.

* * *

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

He knocks three times, lightly in the case that his friend is still recharging. It shouldn't be too surprising, he had looked awful tired the night before had had most likely slept through his alarm. Frowning, the bot reaches forward to knock three more times, harsh and loud, each call and ping being ignored outright.

_How rude._ Crosses his mind a moment, more sarcastic than upset. Quickly, the first thought is followed with the worry of, _I hope he's all right._

It doesn't take an experienced hacker, or even a Special Operations agent to open the door. The two are close friends, a particular type of love that grew between them making their relationship stronger orn by orn, and with that love and strength came the knowledge of the other's quarter's code. It was just mandatory, an unwritten rule that control panel codes where exchanged once you realize that your every spare moment is spent with that one, particular bot.

The door slides open to a common, or uncommon, sight. The berth is unmade, the blanket pooling on the floor like some off-colored puddle of liquid. He touches the berth padding, feeling for warmth and finding none. The bed had been in this state and abandoned for quite some time.

Worry begins to germinate in the bot's spark, a moment of outright panic flaring up before he forces himself to stomp it out and think. His processor doesn't need to, though, as his audios picked up a soft sound from the adjoining room.

A sigh, barely audible and so spark-wrenching that he immediately knows what has happened. It doesn't take a rocket scientist or a doctor to discover what's going on, and the blanket is scooped up and the pillow removed from the bed as he troops towards the wash racks. The blanket trails along the floor like the cape of an ancient Prime, pooling at his pedes like a miscolored stream.

The door slides open with a simple command, and he stands there a moment, taking in the sight.

His friend, the one who would never admit defeat or that something was ever wrong, was currently sprawled on his own wash rack floor. His pedes stuck out at odd angles, one pointing one way and the other the opposite direction. A hand draped over his stomach armour, the other palm up and limp on the cold floor. A sheen of condensation coats his frame and causes both of his hands to shine, a frown creases his face, and shivers wrack his body.

The friend - the healthy one - kneels down next to the sick bot and quickly drapes the blanket over the body, counting the kliks until the shaking subsides. The bot murmurs in his sleep, shifting uneasily before falling still once again.

He reaches out a hand for a sticky shoulder, shaking it lightly. He calls out the sleeping if not unconscious bot's name, tapping him lightly until he shifted and muttered and groaned. "Come on." he repeats the name. "Time to wake up."

A flutter of shutters and the feel of hot breath on his shoulder lets him know that the downed bot is finally waking up. It took some encouragement, soft words and gentle shakes, until the optics clicked and calibrated and lucidity returned.

The bot groaned. "Why'd you wake me?" he asks, muttered and hoarse from his terrible night. Just how often had he woken up? How many times had he been sick? He pulls the newfound blanket over his shoulders, curling on his side while still sitting up. "I wan'go back to s'eep."

The second bot chuckles, poking a colored shoulder plate. "You don't want to keep sleeping on the floor, do you?"

"Yes." comes the reply, nothing more than mouth moving to answer. "Go away."

A whimper at the loss of warmth and the nauseating, dizzying feeling of being moved as his servos were gently grabbed and pulled until he was on his pedes. Sort of.

"Easy." the tormentor - er - 'helper' says lowly, the ill bot leaning heavily onto his friend for support.

The pillow he had brought and never used is still tucked under his servo, the blanket caped over the shivering friend. It was a simple task getting him back to berth, he only had to practically carry him and let him fall in with a thud.

"Scrap." he mutters, face in the returned pillow.

Instinctual, the comforter took a step back. "What's wrong? Are you gonna be sick again?"

"I didn't report." comes the muffles answer. "I could be marked down as AWOL right now for not showing up."

His friend snickers, placing a hand on the warm helm after he forces his friend to flip over. "You're not marked as AWOL. When you didn't show up for shifts todays, they asked me to come down and check one you. I already sent a message that you caught that bug that's been going around base."

A pitiful hum is his answer, the bots optics shuttered tight. It takes a moment, a few steady breaths and convulsively swallows before he can risk opening his mouth without fear of purging. "Thanks."

There is no reply, the friend having slipt into the wash racks. The poorly bot couldn't bring himself to care to wonder what he was doing, and shuttered his optics to try to fight the still pounding helmache and the churn of nothingness in his tank. He felt so hot, yet so cold. It felt as if he had been thrown into the smelting Pits and tossed into a chamber of liquid nitrogen all at once, burning and shivering. He wanted the blanket off, yet clutched it should anyone try to follow-up on that first order.

"Here, try this." a soft voice says gently, so as to not cause his friend any more pain then he was already in.

A cold cloth is placed over his helm, and he cannot withhold the sigh that leaves his lips at the easing of his helm. His hand is moved, a panel flipped, and something cool slipt into his wrist. A pain chip helping to ease the helmache even more, dimming the blinding migraine to something just a little more manageable.

He hears a chair pulled out from the desk. It wasn't pulled over to the side of the berth, merely pulled out, and a heavy weight causing the hinges to groan as his friend sat down. He could only be thankful it wasn't right next to his berth like stories always made the others do. It was actually rather creepy to have someone watch over you while ill like that, staring at you while you slept and watching as you purged. And just what was so interesting about watching an ill bot sleep that they sat there, doing nothing, watching and staring like a daemon ready to pounce?

"What are you doing?" he managed to call out weakly, squinting at the blurred figure hunched over his desk.

The bot shrugged. "Reading up on some regulations and stuff. Maybe a novel if I find the time."

"That isn't what I meant." 'And you know that' goes unsaid as the bot has to quickly swallow down the bitter taste in the back of his throat.

"Bin's by the berth." is said nonchalantly, followed by the answer. "And somebot's got to take care of your stupid aft. I doubt you really want to go to med-bay, and you don't really need to go as it's just a little overheating. Just get some rest, and I'll be over here if you need anything."

A grunt is the only answer he gets, but all the thanks he needs at the sickly, miserable smile the berthridden bot is able to muster. The disease ridden bot shutters his optics, ready for recharge, and thankful for the help of such a kind, considerate, close friend to help him through such an annoying illness.

* * *

Author's Note- I imagined Prowl and Jazz, Prowl being the sick bot and Jazz being the- Okay, I did at first, but as I kept writing I kept seeing Ratchet and Wheeljack. Ratchet being the ill bot and Wheeljack the comforter.

Also, was bored so you got this early. 

Who did you imagine?


	4. Decepticon: Injury

_Decepticon : Injury_

* * *

Imagine, of you will, a poor, tortured soul. His colors could be that of pure black, his face completely hidden in shame of that which he does not know, only that he has been told to be ashamed of himself and serve his leader unquestionably. Perhaps, his colors are bright and flamboyant, like a flamingo in a sea of dinginess. From his back blossoms a pair of seekers wings, or perhaps even nothing at all. He is used to being called a 'drone', a 'sparkless machine', or maybe even a 'fool' or a 'traitorous wretch'.

Whatever he look like or whatever he may be, he is hurt - lagging in the back of the return group - and alone.

He lands as gracefully as he can with what injuries he has sustained upon the landing strip that rises from the blue to great them like a giant island all their own. He stumbles as his pedes hit the black asphalt top, pain shooting up the joints at the shock of hitting solid ground.

He aches, he's leaking energon at an alarming speed, and- worse of all- he has made a fool of himself. One would think that, with the ability to fly amongst all Decepticons such as himself, they would have an upper hand over the Autobots, who were grounded more often than not.

White hot pain shoots through his servo, where a photon charge from somebot's lucky shot had ran right through him. He knows it's a bad injury, and the dizzying pain threatens to put him out right then and there on the landing strip.

What the pain doesn't do is get rid of the voices all about, not ones of concern or pity as they help him inside, but of scorn and disgust at not only his weakened state, but his inability to pull his own at the impossible bottom line Lord Megatron had created for them.

"You've really done it this time." one, looking remarkably similar to himself, sneers.

A second one snorts in agreement. "Isn't that just like you? A miserable failure that can't even stand against a handful of Autobots."

"Perhaps we should just let you handle them yourself next time." the first one adds. "We've bailed you out more times than I care to count."

He pulls himself away, half-limping and half-dragging himself along. It just wasn't fair, he had never asked for any of this. Sometimes he wondered if he had joined the Decepticon army out of his own free will, or if he had just woken up one morning and found himself within the dark, gray and purple barracks of the lower ranking Decepticons.

_Maybe I should defect._ The thought has crossed his mind more than once. _At least then when I had to face Lord Megatron, I can shoot right back._

But, the fear of leaving the Decepticon ranks, his own personal brainwashing into selling his soul to the Unmaker, burned his spark even more than the torn wires in his shoulder and pede. He swallows down his traitorous thoughts and forces himself to solider on, pushing himself until he could collapse upon the one thing that he owned- somewhat. His berth, the mini sanctuary where he could let his thoughts wander, and the one place he wasn't entirelly afraid of being shot in the back.

He falls upon the padless sheet of metal like one would a berth of gossamer and swan down- because the small, hidden feathers of that white, earth bird were much softer than anything else he had ever felt. He inhales deeply his own scent, trying to keep the low keens from escaping his vocalizer at the uncontrolled pain washing over him like waves of the ocean.

He starts as a hand touched him, a gasp taking what little breath he has left as he launches himself up - his longtime fear of being murdered when his back was turned leaping into play as he turned, wide opticed towards whoever his assassin may be. Pain tears through him, rushing like a derailed bullet train, and he falls against the berth with a heavy, lifeless thunk.

"Please." he strains, static filling his vocalizer more than audible words. "Don't hurt-"

Thin, lithe digits - or maybe even chunky digits, if the bot was husky enough - pinch his lips shut. "Shh." the bot hisses, his colors, be they bright or dark, appearing black in the lightless room. "You're gonna get us both caught."

The injured bot nods slowly, his spark melting into a pool of liquid lead as the heaviness of fear subsides and the shock of pain and even comfort fills him. This is a friend, as odd as that may seem in such a desolate, demented place as the Decepticon barracks. This bot is like himself, a tortured soul whom he has never met before but has seen passing by in the halls and as confused as he.

He starts as his wrist is grabbed, a flap quickly being thrown and a cold device slid into a port there. His optics widen as the pain begins to subside, and anxiety once again catches him as easy prey.

"I won't tell if you won't." the newcomer grins, be it hidden or plain for all to see. "Pain chips aren't easy to come by, so try to drain it slowly."

The laying bot nods slowly, immediately setting about trying to keep his systems from sucking the pain chip dry in just a few astro-kliks. The hand that had slid in the chip had now moved up to his shoulder, poking at the bits of broken, fritzing wire before going down to do the same for the pede.

The bot gritting his denta gasps out, intaking sharply. "How bad is it?"

"Bad." the angel in purple insignia wasn't going to lie, there was no point. "I'm not sure how much I can do."

"Please." his voice was still more static than anything else. "Just do what you can. It hurts."

The bot vents slowly. "You do know this'll hurt more, right? I can try to solder some of those seams and wires, but you're still just as open to infection as you are right now and the pain chip is just barely enough to take alone a helmache let alone detailed _surgery-_ which I have no training in to begin with."

"Please." he's begging, he knows he is, he is ashamed of the fact, but he's scared and hurt and knows he's dieing and can't do anything about it.

A second vent. "I'll see what I can do, all right? Just pray Primus - if there is one - takes pity on you and either lets you pass out from tha pain or offline in your recharge."

He nods, dizzy just from tha faint motion even as he feels a hard pressure pushing just above his shoulder. The bot's going to have to do everything with the tips of his digits, rerouting energon to said tips to try to heat them enough fot the wire to melt into place. The hand on his shoulder squeezes gently, optics staring into his own.

"You ready?"

A single nod, and his very life became the embodiment of pain. The world turned a pure, brilliant white before sinking into the deepest darkness ever known to botkind.

* * *

_Systems Rebooting Sequence Starting._

_Would you like to boot up? Y/N?_

_'No.'_

_Denied. Systems rebooting._

Slowly, despite his wish to remain in that warm, dark, floaty place for all of eternity he was forced to come online. Never had he felt so free, never so calm and serene. He had almost wished it was the Well of Sparks he had been taught about as a young child, sitting upon his carrier's knee as she told him all about the Maker and Unmaker, of the Pit and of the Well, and how one gets into either one.

_You fool._ he sneered at himself._ Like you'd ever make it to the Well._

Perhaps he was in the Pit already, an endless Hell of pain, suffering, and torture that he woke up each morning and walked right into. While '_Nemesis'_ might not have the same effect as, perhaps, 'Hades' might, in his mind they were one of the same.

_I wonder if Megatron means the same as Beelzebub._

He groaned instead of laughed at his thoughts, achy and sore and alone. He had no idea as to the time, how long it had taken to reach this 'fixed' state, how long he had been out, or just when that bot had helped him. Slowly, he turned his helm to find something warm and glowing reaching out to him from the floor. Biting his glossa to keep from shouting, he stretched down a servo to lift it up.

A cube of energon, perhaps warm at one point, but blue and glowing and healthful all the same. His systems lurched forward, forcing half the cube down his throat before he had even realized he had taken a sip. His body craved the fuel, gulping it down as the starved bot he was.

His helm fell back against the berth with a pant, intaking air the way he had the energon. His mind was still fogged and drained, flooded with pain and drowned in loneliness. He lifted his helm again as a clear thought swam through the nonsense in his processor, and his optics shuttered.

_I don't even know his name_. He shook his helm. _The name of the bot who helped me with my injuries._

* * *

Author's Notes- I might have cheated a bit on this one. The only bot this won't work with is Megatron, as he's named a few times here... And, this one chapter only works in Decepticon POV. It seems one can only write in Autobot POV, usually, so - unless marked such as this one- it is either or but probably Autobot.

Also, Soundwave might be a little hard to imagine due to his 'speech impedament', let's say. :)

And, I am uncertain as to what the base of the underwater headquarters of the Decepticon's in the original series (G1) is called. As in TFP the ship is called the _Nemesis_, thought it only made sense for the underwater place to be called the _Nemesis _as well, just in case some of you were thinking G1 or something. And, if you did TFA, then let's just pretend they named their hidey-hole caves?

Who did you imagine as the injured bot and the one who helped him? I started off thinking about Starscream, but after the first few lines I started to imagine just a random Eradicon/Vehicon and another of the same from TFP. I always liked those guys. So... Steve and Bob?


	5. Death

_Death_

Imagine, if you will, a battlefield. The ground is dry and barren - perhaps the earth terrain of a desert or just a wasteland of Cybertron, or even a dry and arid landing stop in-between on some far away planet or stop that had been unlucky enough to take a hand in the war. The ground is brown, gray, and cracked. Dust fills the air, figuratively choking out life, while the whizzing photon charges take care to destroy that life literally.

It is side against side, Autobots versus Decepticons, as always. There is no in-between, no neutrality to hold the peace, and no peacemaker to cause neutrality. The air is thick with flying blasts or red, blue, and green, spotted with the occasional yellow or purple of an acid pellet gun or null ray. There are make-shift trenches, walls set up to duck behind, and the terrains natural covering of rocks, piles or dirt, or a stray crystal here and there to give asylum for as long as it stood.

There is one fighter amongst all, shooting for all he is worth and trying to save the life of himself, his friends, perhaps even his family as he injures yet another member of the opposing party. He feels no pride for what he is doing, but doesn't allow himself to feel remorse or regret for fear the moments dwelling would land him on the ground, wounded or even dying, besides his fallen comrades. He has become desensitized, nothing hurting him or causing him any sort of pain as he fires of the next shot, dodging a blast, and shooting again.

His helm lifts up towards the sky, he is clear of Seekers for the moment, each one of the winged devils preoccupied on the other side of the field. It is an opportune moment for one on the other side to pause, draw back his weapon, take careful aim, and pull the trigger.

"Get down!"

"Helms up!"

"Look out!"

Perhaps it was one voice who shouted to him, perhaps two or three or even more that had shouted his name. So many bots looking out for him, for themselves, and for others all at once, and each and every shout too late.

A fiery pain erupts within him, his chassis seeming to burst into the flames of the smelting holes of the Pit, and he freezes. Stunned and stupefied like a little child learning that the monsters under his berth are in fact real, he stares down in horror to find a hole ripped clean through him, fritzing and sparking wires poking out where energon should not be flowing.

Pain bursts in his knees, and he finds himself face down in the dirt before he even has time to draw in a shaky, rattling, choking vent. His spark was not damaged, of that much he is certain. If it had, he would not be here lying wide awake, optics studying the detailed grains of dust and granules beneath him, and enveloped in a world of hurt and suffering.

No, it is one of his ventilation shafts that have been torn. He can feel it, the splayed, burnt edges of the silvery box within him filling with liquid energon and drowning him on dry land, His vision swims, perhaps a tiny insect that had once been in his line of vision seeming to become one with the earth he crawled on. He has one working ventilation shaft trying to make up for his brother, who continues to move as if imitating breathing. A cruel mockery that only inflicts more pain, causes the tear to become worse, and floods over to choke out his twin shaft.

So wrapped up in his own world of hurt, the injured bot missed the call of retreat sent up by the other side. He does not feel the pride of a job well done, innocents protected and friends saved. He doesn't even register the fact that there is a bot by his side until he is turned over, groaning in pain and groping towards the open hole in his chassis.

"Don't move!" the bot - a medic - shouts loud enough for him to hear and pulls away his hand. "You're critically injured and I need for you to stay awake."

What torture. Unconsciousness was already knocking at the doors of his mind, lucidity wishing to flee away from him as if he was a bot covered in Plauge. He wishes to sleep, to be knocked out, to be put under, to be put into either a medically induced or an involuntary stasis.

He starts as an unintelligible word is shouted in his audio, something being poked into his neck cables but doing nothing to ease the pain. "Stay with me, solider. I need for you to tell me your name and rank, right now."

A pause, the bot blinking slowly as he watched the medic above work furiously over him. His name? This bot wanted his name? Shouldn't the bot fixing him know his name, having asked as if he knew? The injured mech certainly didn't know. Unless-

He strangles out a name, not even certain if its the right one or not. A rank and his number were choked out, emphasized by vicious coughs that only made the pain worse.

"Easy, easy." the medic soothes, quickly grabbing him by the shoulders and rolling him over as congealed energon spurts from his mouth. Not vomit, but the liquid within his ventilation shafts that are making each breath harder and harder. He was so tired, he only wished to close his optics for one klik. No more, and just shutter them. Nothing bad would happen if he merely closed his weary optics and-

He starts once again as his name is shouted, clearly and more accurately than the shot that had taken him down. He turn his helm, struggling against the hands that held his weak frame down to see the source of his caller.

The bot running towards him repeats the name, falling his his knees harder than the wounded bot had and grabbing up a limp hand. "Oh," the name is repeated. "Oh, no."

"I-I'm alright." he manges to slur out, letting the words drool from him like the energon filling his mouth. He chokes on the bots names, another bout of being rolled over and adding to the coughed up energon before.

"Shh." dirty digits, streaked with the dust of the planet and slight burns from the heat of his weapon, are pressed to his stained, wet derma. "Don't speak, please. Just save your strength. Get-get stronger. For me?"

A lover, perhaps even a second half of the bot bleeding into the sands cradling the fallen frame like an ill-kept berth. Not caring for the state his perhaps-mate's face was in, he gently presses his lips first to the warm forehelm and then to the bloodied cheek before finally pressing his lips to the stained derma plating beneath him. His optics are shuttered tight, his hand gently squeezing his lover's hand as if an attempt to channel his own strength into the one who needed it desperately.

He pulls back with a wet, slick noise that had nothing to do with normal oral fluids, and nearly cries out at the flickering optics and even weaker state his other half is in. He cradles the bot below's helm in his lap, grabbing at him and keening softly. "Please, please, you've got to hold on for me. Please."

Summing up all the strength left in his body, and reaching above the medic still trying to save his life, he cradles the now wet with coolant tears cheek of the one above. He gasps, trying to draw just one more breath, but he could only choose between speaking and holding the face of his lover. The lover solved the problem, gripping the slipping hand and holding it to his face like a lifeline between them - a frayed, stringed lifeline that would snap if so much as a single jar veered it any way but the way it hung.

"I love you." he whispers, ventilations shuddering and bubbling as he chokes, struggling against both medic and companion as he tries to find air, drowning once and for all.

Rolling him to clear his mouth of metallic-flavored energon doesn't help, and he's rolled back. He keeps his mouth diligently shut, not wanting the very last image of him in his lover's helm one of his struggling for his last breath. His hand, both the one stubbornly held to the teary cheek above and grasped in the others free hand, falls limp and optics brighten in a final burst of pain and desperation as his spark found nothing left for it to pump and his processor realized it had no cooling air flow to control. The surge of energy to his optics faded, dimming with the steady speed of an old lightbulb slowly going out.

"No." the bot left is desperate, even more so as the medic who had once faithfully tried to piece back the blended puzzle of parts that were missing pieces sat back on his pedes and shook his helm. "Please."

"I'm sorry." the medic says lowly, grabbing up his scattered tools to move on to anyone else who might benefit from his hand. "He's gone."

The keens and sobs behind him would haunt the medic to his very last vent, the cries of one who had lost their second half to the cruel claws of merciless death.

* * *

Author's Note- I'm not very sure who I see here. It's obvious that the two are Autobots, having medics and all. Perhaps you can pretend that the D-cons have battlefield medics as well, just to even out the playing field.

As usual, I still see Prowl and Jazz- Prowl the one dying and Jazz the one left behind. Ratchet's the medic- duh. Maybe Bluestreak and Sunstreaker...or Sideswipe. I ship the three of them sometimes. I mean, they're robots. There can't be a lot of taboo there.

Who did you imagine?


	6. (New) Life

_(New) Life_

* * *

Imagine, if you will, a hospital sick bay. Perhaps, it is the examining room of a clean and pristine unit, a grand place for the sick filled with the best of medics and the smartest of doctors in the pre-war era. Perhaps, and much more likely, it is a small medical bay just barely scrounged up and just a grade above a triage. A grade above meaning that, instead of tented curtains or less, there are actual walls and the regular battle-field medicines are neatly arranged in sparse cupboards and few drawers instead of strewn about in sub-space pockets.

The walls, perhaps the cool rock walls of the Silo or the gaudy, nauseous shade of orange the _Ark_ was colored in by default. Default, as in whoever had chosen such an evil color would be in _deep fault_ should his most sinister sin of color blinded-ness ever be found out.

Whatever the place, be it grand building of medicine or little corner of a rocky base, there is at least one medical berth and there is one bot sitting on that berth. He twiddles his digits, nervous and too ashamed to show it by anything more than the careful rubbing of his thumbs over his hands in self-comfort.

A hand travels over his servo, easing the erratic throbbing of his spark from feeling that something is terribly, horribly wrong to something just terrible, not horrible. He'd been feeling...ill, recently. It wasn't terribly awful, even if it did linger the entire day; he was mainly only physically ill early in the mornings and late at night. Again, nothing as awful as the virus that many had fallen prey to just awhile back, but nausea was nausea even if it could be pushed aside. He had only purged once...twice...thrice...

Perhaps he had lost count, but he wasn't contiguously ill. That was something good, right?

The hand on his servo, a lover's, slips into his own hand and squeezes. The bot beside him leans in close, standing beside the medical berth he sat on, and whispers into his audio, breath sweet and warm. "Don't worry. The doctor'll make everything fine."

The bot seated takes a careful vent, not only just to settle the maelstrom within his tank, but within his fluttering spark. The soft, clunky pad-pad-padding of the medic's pedesteps were returning, and with it, perhaps the answer to his problem.

The medic returns, his typical colors of white and red or white and orange gleaming in the harsh overhead lights glaring into the optics of all within the base. In his hands is a single data-pad, perhaps containing the condition or illness the seated bot had, and maybe even the cure. But...what if it was something incurable? What if he had some deadly disease, some terrible illness, that would wreak havoc on his life and leave his frame lifeless in the end?

His mate's hand tightens on his servo as a shudder travels up his spinal struts, and he pushes away the dastardly thoughts.

"Well." the medic vents, his free hand slapping his thigh as he studies his data-pad one final time, as if he himself hadn't looked it over a hundred times now. "Looks like _one_ or maybe even _both _of you have gone and forgotten your protection."

He blinks, looking up into the optics of his lover for a moment before turning back to the medic. "What do you mean?" he asks, demands even. "Explain."

"What I mean is," the medic smirks, optics dancing mischievously as if entertaining the thought that he just wouldn't tell. He tells anyways, "is that you're sparked"

A beat passes, one, two and three more. His optics shutter and unshutter, snapping him from his stupor as he whirls about to stare at his lover - perhaps mate, perhaps not. His lover, mate, or friend with benefits jerks at the same time, their lips moving simultaneously.

"I thought you had protection."

The medic snorts, rubbing a worn corner of his pad with his thumb digit as he shakes his helm. "Case and point."

The seated bot is forced to take several careful vents, no longer worried about purging his tank as much as he is about crashing. The bot beside him, the donor of the second half of coding needed to spark, lays a hand on his shoulder and turns towards the medic, optics wide.

"Are you _sure_?" he asks stupidly, as if the medic were a complete imbecile who couldn't tell a sick bot from a healthy one.

"Of course!" the medic exclaims, servos flying up before slapping his thighs again. "He's three and a half groons in. The newspark is already in the gestation chamber, having separated from the spark approximately two quartex ago. As far as my scanners go, at least."

The dazed feeling of your processor becoming stratosphere matter began to disperse, normal thought patterns returning as he sorted through the medic's information. He lifted his hand, brushing his spark chamber and frowning lightly. "Shouldn't I have felt something, though? That's pretty far along, isn't it?"

"Damn straight, it is." the medic chuckles. "While it isn't unheard of or even uncommon to have a newspark separate while a bot's recharging, you'd think you'd notice that your chassis is warm and feels swollen, or at least a heavy feeling in the spark chamber due to the _second being_."

The seated bot ducks his helm, face warm and deep maroon at the scolding. He glances up, still red-faced but curious as he regards the medic. "It is healthy, right? No abnormalities or anything?"

"None, as far as my scanners go." doctor bot states confidently. "And my scanners go pretty far. Get up and get out. You and the sparkling are as healthy as the two of you can possibly be, and the morning sickness should clear up in a few orns. Keep up on your fuel, rest, congratulations, and all that regular scrap."

That hand is still clasping his shoulder as he slides from the berth, feeling both lighter and heavier. His spark is light, light with the fact that there's nothing wrong with him and he's completely all right. He feels heavy, and not the bad way either. It's not the kind of heavy that weighs you down, or the kind of heavy that drags you into the sloughs of depression, or even the kind that comes with being a bulky bot. He's heavy - or will be, soon enough - with child. He's heavy with new life.

* * *

Author's Note- Wanna guess who I imagined?

Yep. Prowl and Jazz - Prowl the sparked, Jazz the sparker, and Ratchet the doctor.

I also saw Wheeljack and Bulkhead, if you change the dialogue to suit their speech patterns. I like the thought of big, tough Wheeljack sparked and Bulkhead the sparker. Ratchet is the medic. (Prime verse.)

Duh.

I was bored so you got this early.

And a Happy Easter to all of my reviewers/readers who celebrate! Go! Be at peace! Celebrate the fact that He is risen!

Who did you imagine?


	7. Snuggling

_Snuggling (New Life pt 2)_

* * *

**'Part 2' by default. Can be a continuation of last chapter, or different altogether. Still up to the reader! **

* * *

Imagine, if you will, a berth. It is large, just enough for two to share and no more. Perhaps a new addition to a new room, a pair finally summing up all their courage and bonding officially in the optics of their Primus. Even still, maybe the two owning such a berth couldn't remember a time they hadn't shared, the jiving title of 'old bonded couple' rightfully theirs and no one elses.

The berth, while unoccupied throughout the day and sometimes even until the ungodly hours of night - or worse - without a sleeper for days on end. The war that had traveled so many planets and had raged relentless for vorns, morphing into years, and keeping many a tired soul from a good nights rest. During that time, the rather quilt-like bedding - a perfect compromise for both opposing likes and dislikes - the berth was neatly made and left for a weary dust particle to park itself on for the time being.

The time is night, a single, silvery moon in its crescent, waxing period stood watch over her millions of sisters the stars, and kept sentry over the planets and neighboring galaxies. The stars twinkle like white Christmas lights, a red giant and a white dwarf just barely noticable if one zoomed in their optic lens enough. The moon sends out her beams like a sensor sweep, narrowing in on the little room, oddly enough, in use.

There is a figure hunched over a small work desk mandatory for nearly each personal quarters on base. While he was usually neat, as those at his rank needed to be, he was scatterbrained in his work, and the work as scattered as his processor. There were stacked pads by his pedes, behind his chair, under the desk, in his lap, and tossed haphazardly about the desktop itself as he tried to figure out just what needed to be filed next. And wasn't he supposed to sign that page, that page, and that page?

_No!_ His mind finally caught up with his hand, that had long since just been curling squiggles instead of his usual penmanship. _I wasn't supposed to write there! Or there!_

"Ugh!" the bot groans loudly, stylus clattering to the floor as his helm hits the desk with a thump. He was so tired, exhausted, and his tank grinded just to remind him that he hadn't refueled since...the night before? "Scrap."

He tilts his helm, wondering if he had just spoken, sworn, aloud. _My mind is so sluggish I can't even think anymore._

Venting quietly, he places a hand over his stomach armor and shutters his optics, feeling the gentle flutters beneath his soft palm padding. The newspark, having detached ages ago, while yet to show, had been moving about recently and had only just been able to be detected by anyone other than himself. Needless to say, his mate had been quite pleased when he had suddenly had his hand grabbed and guided to the warm tank area, a dazzled smile stretching across the sire's-to-be face.

He jumps with a start, a cry leaving his lips, as a hand rests on his shoulder. Spark thrumming madly, he turns to face his assassin with a deadly glare all his own. "How dare you!" he shouts, perfectly indignant and hormones rampant as they no longer had to be hidden away from lower ranking officers', and even higher ranking ones', optics. "Don't sneak up on me!"

"I wasn't sneaking." the mate says calmly, trying to cool the other's frazzled nerves and only succeeding in feeding fuel to the raging inferno. "This is our room, and I even knocked so any fault of being scared is your own."

Perhaps that had been the wrong thing to say, as the sparked bot's already scary optics took on a whole new level of demonic. "Are you saying this is _my_ fault?" he demands, motioning to nothing at all as his tank grinds to take away some of the Unmaker-worthy fear mongering.

The final is the perfect distraction for the 'helpful' mate to jump on, pulling himself out of the ditch he had managed to dig for himself. He puts his hands on his hips, frowning deeply at the seated mech. "When was the last time you've eaten?"

The sudden show of dominance puts the seated mech into submission, and he lowers his helm in shame, stammering a moment. "I'm...I mean, I was going to, but-"

"_Well_?" the voice isn't cruel, but so strongly mastering that it's impossible to ignore.

"I can't remember." pipes up the little voice from the chair, chin merging with his chassis and hands folding in his lap.

A creak of metal, and his mate's crouching beside him with one hand on his servo and the other lifting up his squished chin. "Hasn't the doc talked to you about this? It was bad enough when you skipped meals on your own, but now you're fueling for two."

A pitiful nod is all the answer he gets, the seated bot too ashamed to even meet optics with his mate. "I swear, I was going to fuel, but I've become so behind in my work that I don't think I'll be able to catch up until the sparkling is born - and then even that'll involve paper work. Certificates of birth, designation registration, conformance of sparkday, and-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." his mate shakes his servo lightly, shaking his rattling helm from side to side. "Easy, there. That's groons - oops - I mean months from now. You don't need to be worrying about what line you need to sign five, six months from now when you can't even remember what time you need to fuel now." Still crouching, he darts a hand beneath the chair and grabs up the fallen stylus. "This is staying with me."

"But, some of these reports are due tomorrow and-"

A digit is pressed to his lips, instantly silencing him. "I'm pretty sure you've got done what needs to get done, work wise. Just take a deep vent and I'll be back in a moment."

He lifts his helm to watch his mate leave, finally finding his sluggish glossa in time as the door slides open. "Where are you going?" he calls out, just as the door slides shut.

It's too late, his lagging processor too slow to calculate the time between the opening and closing of a door, yet alone narrow down the places where his mate might be heading at such a late hour. He shutters his optics, leaning back in the chair as he lets his mind wander and the flits and floats within him lull him into a sense of security.

The little one, now currently so sweet and gentle, had been quite a handful just a few weeks ago. For something unable to live off of anything but his spark, it certainly had been able to create a good deal of trouble and was the reason for so many behind reports. It was rather hard to see which line he needed to sign and just what report he was filling when he couldn't see farther than the inside of a latrine bowl. It had been a miserable few weeks, to say the very least.

His helm starts up as the door slid open, shutting with a hydraulic _whoosh!_ His mate had somehow changed the stolen stylus into a glowing cube, bright with the needed energy and no doubt tampered with as his mate had taken over the 'necessary additory supplements needed for optimal sparkling development', as the good doctor had put it.

The cube is pressed into his hands, the electrical feeling tingling his numb with fatigue hands and traveling up his servos as his digits reflexively close. "Drink this."

It is an order, and one he is most willing to oblige. He feels like a bot starved, not knowing when he had lifted with cube to his lips or just when it had become empty. He wasn't even entirely sure if he had stopped for a vent or not. All he knew was that it was now fuel-less, and he looked at a single, glimmering drop on the side with longing before setting the glass canister aside.

While he had felt just moment ago that he could have drained five cubes with gluttonous ease, the one cube suddenly felt too much. It filled his most likely shrunken tank to its capacity, his already fogged with hormones and sleepiness processor now tenfold so. He felt full and warm, heavy and tingly all at once. A hand was on his shoulder, and his helm lifted with a start.

"Shh." his mate chuckles lightly, taking both of his hands to help him stumble to his pedes. The chivalrous bondmate even went out of his way to take on most of his weight. "Let's get you to berth, hmm?"

He could only nod numbly, feeling more like a sleepy sparkling himself than the adult bot he prided himself on being. It was only a few steps, seven at the most, but he felt the need to rest his helm on the supporting shoulder those few steps to the berth and refusing to get off until he had been lain down and covered.

The mate vents, shaking his helm at the piteous form before him in the berth. He had hoped for a shower when he had returned, dusty and dirty from patrolling the desert plains. Instead, he let that hope flow down the drain as he called for the lights off, and slipped into the berth beside his loopy mate. Playing the big spoon, he curls protectively around the tucked frame, letting a hand rest over the warm stomach armor and the fluttering kicks and twists travel over his hand.

"You really do need to start taking better care of yourself." he whispers into a half-listening audio, chuckling at the mumbles and murmurs before a 'solid' answer slid through.

"You're right."

Oh, how easy he could play this. "That includes recharging better, fueling when you need to, taking on less work, and resting."

"Mm-hm." came the hummed reply, optics shuttered as he managed to squirm onto his side and nuzzle deep into his mate's chassis. "Whatever you say."

"That a promise?"

"Yes."

The big spoon mate chuckles softly. "And...that involves...snuggling. And lots of it."

A quiet hum is the only reply, and in the positive at that. There is no time to continue to wheedle promises and oaths from his barely lucid mate, the shuttered optics offlining beneath their lids and vents immediately evening into the terribly needed REM. Sighing contentedly, he cups the back of his lovers helm, presses his forehead to that of the others, and shutters his optics in the first of many bouts of yet to come snuggling.

* * *

Author's Note- Okay, last time I said that I also saw BHxWJ, but this time I could only picture PxJ the whole time.

I also hate that last line. In case you haven't noticed, I've been trying to end each drabble with the title of each 'chapter', the last word being that of the title. I wanted to end this as 'snuggling yet to come', and cheat...but I didn't.

Who did you imagine?


	8. Bad Timing

_Bad Timing (New Life pt 3)_

* * *

**Part 3 by default. Can be taken as a continuation of previous chapters or something entirely new.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Imagine, if you will, a berthroom. It is simple, made for two, and bright with natural light. The sun, gleaming and beating down upon the ground with all the severity she could muster at high noon, stretched impossibly high in the clear, cloudless sky.

In that berthroom you find all the typical necessities of an issued quarters. There is a desk, strategically placed close to the door for a tired bot to drop into at the end of a long day and work on paperwork. There is a door leading to a wash racks, as simple and plain as you can get, and in the far corner is a berth that fits two frames comfortably.

In that berth, usually well-made and abandoned for things taking precedence over sleep and recharge and health, there is a bot on that berth. His optics search the orange-peel orange ceiling, counting the seams and bolts of the same dizzying, distracting color.

_This is completely unfair._

_I hate everyone._

_How is this for my own good?_

_I hate the doctor._

_Wasn't this supposed to be over days, weeks ago?_

_I just want to get _up_!_

He lies on his back, sharp blue optics full of annoyance and ready to kill the first to dare cross the threshold to his room. His servos are stretched across his expanded stomach plating, resting above a still form within. The sparkling is sleeping now, not moving or kicking his innards enough to make him wonder if his offspring as a Decepticon at spark, for no Autobot would torture another so much. He knows he should be sleeping and resting now as the moment is ripe and opportune, and many rechargeless nights have left him unapproachable and downright cranky, but he's too tired to sleep and to uncomfortable to move about and try to find a comfortable position.

There is a cube of energon beside him, half gone and within servos reach. He takes it up and forces a cool sip down his throat, the heat of the day affecting him more than most. _Of course it would. What else could there be to make this even worse?_

He hisses lightly, lifting his optics at the soft pain through his midsection. _I had to ask_. Of course, only after tempting Primus to try to make him more uncomfortable, would he have a Braxton Hick. Such a simple name for pure, tormenting, taunting torture. Three weeks ago he had felt his first Braxton Hick, and both excitement and nervousness had struck him. _This is it._ He had thought as his mate helped him up from the berth, a full moon outside their window. _This is what we have been waiting for._

Twenty minutes later and a trek back through the _Ark_, they had found themselves right where they had started. "It's only a Braxton Hick, a mini-contraction." the medic had said, checking over his charts and reading. "You're not even remotely near labor. I don't like the look of these here levels, though. They're too high and are dangerous to both you and the sparkling."

Which was how he found himself here - twenty-one days later - on _berthrest_. It seemed only rest and quiet and having the ability to move about under his own free will removed were the only things that would keep the sparkling protected, so he must suffer for the greater good of their young.

So, here he was. Alone, miserable, tired, achy, annoyed, bored, and _overdue_. Overdue by at least three days. "It's normal to be off, sometimes as much as two weeks." the medic had said. "You're no closer to labor than you were when you came to me a few weeks ago, and those levels still aren't what they should be. Go back to your quarters and just relax. This'll happen when it's supposed to happen."

"Says you!" the bot shouts at the wall, his mate unable to keep him company with the fragging war brewing on.

It's not like he doesn't _want_ to be comfortable, he physically _can't_. He's too hot all day, heavy and sore and cranky. At night his unborn sparkling seems to have recently become nocturnal, flipping and kicking and knocking inside of him as it flipped about.

His internal brooding and whining were cut short as a Klaxons blared, a red light flashing in each and every room and hall in signal of an enemy sighting. A _close_ enemy sighting.

He moans softly, helm hitting the pillow beneath him and thunking against the headboard as the thunderous pound of pedesteps swells and dissipates in the halls. He should be out there helping his fellow soldiers and fighting along side his brothers of battle instead of lieing here like a giant blob of metal ore and digital protoplasm. He _needs_ to get up and be helpful, the reports he had once been given to do taken away with medical restraints as the work was causing an undo amount of 'stress' on the sparkling.

"Stress?" he mutters to himself as he tries to ignore the fading rumbling of bots in alt. racing from the base. "The sparkling doesn't even understand the meaning of the word."

He shutters his optics, scoffing at how helpless this pregnancy has forced him to become, not even flinching as a rather strong Braxton ripples through him. Stronger? Perhaps. Worthy of his notice? Most definitely not.

He pauses, the rumbling of engines off somehow and not retreating into the distance, but roaring into the area. The bot opens his optics, staring unseeing up at the ceiling as he strains his audios for some clue as to the strange noise.

They were engines, that much was certain. But they were missing the rattling and rumbling of axles and shocks upon the ground and gravel flying about. It was also too low, this was the sound of powerful engines. This noise was _up_, and his optics widened just as he realized those were the sounds of multiple Seeker, fighter jet engines.

He realizes too late, a sharp scream and whistle piercing the air and shaking him to his core. The ground trembles in agony as missiles and torpedoes struck it, the little _Ark_ bouncing like a child on a trampoline. Dust and gravel from above rains down on him, choking him slightly as he coughs out the dirt and tries to push himself up.

Problem: due to his being due any moment and gigatuine size, it didn't exactly make manoeuverability very easy. He was dependant upon his mate to grab his hands and heft him up when he needed a wash or it was time for his next doctors appointment. Only once had he managed to get up without help, and it was only becase his mate had stood next to the berth laughing as he rocked and swung himself up to no avail.

The ground shakes again, actually doing something more than nearly tearing the roof down from above. The berth rattles and trembles in turn, somehow assisting him in pushing himself up and onto his pedes.

"Huh..." he muses for a moment, rather pleased that he had gotten himself up on his own two pedes. A small victory to most, and equivalent to climbing Mount Everest to him.

He ducks his helm, servos instinctually wrapping about his cramping middle as pebbles and debris shake down on top of him. He has to get out before the ceiling collapsed at its joints, or a missile hit the wall beside him.

He's out of the room as fast as his pedes can carry him and the added weight, and notices instantly just how quiet the dirt-covered, dusty, rattling, bending halls are. _It's-it's as if everyone's forgotten about me..._

He gasps, gripping his side and groping for the wall as his pedes threaten to buckle, a pain remarkably similar yet even more painful than being shot radiating through him. He grits his denta and groans, waiting for it to pass. The fleeting belief that is was just a _really_ bad Braxton Hick just doesn't seem to make sense, and he is reluctant to admit that it is, indeed, a contraction.

_It's alright, it's alright_. Frantically, he tries to calm himself, even as a second pain shoots through. _These things take time._

Once the third is over, he's pushing himself through the wrecked, orange halls that quite literally looked like missiles had destroyed them. At some parts, he was able to see the outside through a smouldering hole too small to fit a regular bot let alone himself. The bot is forcing himself to the one spot he knows he'll be safe, and the one spot that his sparkling would be fully protected, too.

The med-bay.

Never had the sickbay ever seemed to far away. Usually getting there was a blur that one barely remembered, but everything was seen with all too vivid clarity now.

He's nearly keening as he collapses to one knee, his support of the wall doing nothing to hold him up as he slips down it and curls forward. _These things are supposed to take time! Not now, please, not now!_

He ignores the wetness beneath his optics as he pushes himself forward, fighting the pain with animal savagery and choking back the sobs that want him curled up in a fetal position on the floor. His prayers of the past near-month of 'Please let it come now, please, we're more than ready for it' have dramatically turned all the way around. He wants the sparkling to stay inside him, safe and warm and protected. He wants it to be alright, and he needs for the pain to stop so that he can reach the med-bay and get out of danger.

A scream sounds overhead, the sparkling-like wail of a missile so close he can practically feel the heat-sensing sweeps searching for his hot, shaking, panting frame. The wall and ground around him erupts into chaos, the entire galaxy seeming to go up in a fiery nova. The bit of ground he was standing on suddenly rises like a pedestal, and tilts forward in the very act of dumping him. It's impossible to keep his balance, his centre of gravity so off these last few months and the bulky weight in front of him capsizing him onto his aft and he slips into an endless sea of twisted, fritzing wires and sheets of bent metal plates.

Wetness seeps beneath him, and he bites his glossa to keep from screaming at the next contraction. Of all the times to injure his pede, it has to be the one same moment when he needs them both to work double time in carrying him. It seems to take forever, the moment he untwists one wire from his frame another snakes about, but he manages to free himself and crawls away from the wreckage. He climbs the dented wall until he's once again on his pedes, and moves forwards.

His optics are pinched by the time he hears a voice other than his own, coolant freely flowing and his pedes at different angles as he slumps against the wall.

"Dear Primus." it's the medic, running towards him and taking on his full weight. A contraction hits, and he cries out. "Easy."

He grips the medics servos with both of his hands, dragging his pedes for each step it takes to get him onto the nearest, unoccupied med-berth. Hands are all over him, checking him and sweeping scanners as fast as they could calibrate.

"How long have you had contractions?" the medic orders, his voice sharp yet his words kind as he hold the bots hand through yet another bout of unimaginable pain.

"I don't know." his own words are choked and slurred, bitten off between pants and rushed with the flood of adrenaline. "Since...since the attack started."

The medic swears, darting forward and shielding his frame as the entire base rattles and shakes again, dust falling and pebbles clattering to the ground and ruining sterilized medical equipment. "That's only twenty-thirty minutes! You're already seven units dilated." he says once the lights flickering and swinging above stopped. "At this rate, you'll be ready to push within the next few hours."

His optics widen, and he shakes his helm back and forth like a fan. "But-but these things take time, it doesn't hurt that-that bad, can't you make it wait?"

"These _things_ don't work like that." there is no humor in the medics voice. "Haven't I been warning you about stress levels the past months?"

"It isn't my fault!" he shouts, all but screaming at the feeling of being torn into pieces. Before he could continue, or the medic could retaliate, a second Klaxons sounded, the blare varying in pitch than the siren before. Everybot knows what that particular high screech means. It means that the base is under full attack, evacuation necessary for the survival of their side.

The medic swears, releasing the laboring bot's hand as he hurries for a data pad and calls as many of his assistants and fellow doctors as he can. They've practiced for this, they've been prepared with drills and routines since the day they signed their designation into their side's ranks. Each bot is designated his own task, the lower ranking medics and nurses and volunteered assistants of the orn sent out to grab emergency tool kits and medicines while as many free hands available were called from their parts of base to carry out the sick and wounded. The higher up doctors and the base's CMO were to check and make sure everyone was on top of everything, take care of some of the more violate medicines and laboratory equipment, and anything else they knew they needed at that moment that wasn't on the basic needs check-sheet.

The sickbay was organized chaos as the few wounded, one or two bots from a past battle still recuperating and two more from the present battle that had made it back, were lifted sickbay berthtop and all and carried out by a pair of two hands to wherever the designated safe spot was.

A pair of hands grip the edge of the berth by his pedes as two more tap up the elevated top, and he looks up with fear-filled optics into a pair just as scared of his own yet able to hide it better.

The bot by his pedes lifts up with ease, the other mirroring, and smiles at the sparked bot. "Looks like we're bugging out of here."

His intakes are harsh, and he just manages to nod before launching into a question, glancing at both bots. "Please, do you know where," he names his mate, "is?"

The bot by his pedes frowns, shaking his helm. "No, I'm sorry. I haven't seen him."

His spark sinks, lifting again as the bot behind him speaks. "He's out on the battlefield. I saw him leave with the others."

The answer doesn't help abate the pounding in his spark. The faint hope that his mate was in some other part of the base, downloading top secret plans and security intel during the bug-out is blown up like C-4. It wasn't a surprise, deep inside he had known his mate was out on the battle field, trying to protect his own mate and unborn sparkling. His other half was a fighter, always had been and always would be.

The bot gasps, both hands grabbing his tank area and a sharp cry leaves his vocalizer as another painful contraction strikes him. It's the worst of all he's had so far, and he's completely oblivious to anything or anyone around him until it fades away.

He is silent for the rest of the trip, not very far as he is taken into a near-by cave system designated for such a purpose as this. The base hasn't been lost to the Decepticons, but at the moment it is too decimated to be called a base. It wouldn't be a fit home for a ladybug larva in its current state let alone the entire Autobot army.

The pained bot has been set down in a corner of the cave that has been set up as a triage, others in need of medical attention either still in their own med-berths or flat on the floor, leaking energon.

The mere thought of energon makes him look down at his own injury, surprisingly painless. Perhaps it was shock, as he could still feel the wetness between his pedes and a continued flow trickling down.

He's shocked to discover no energon, but brown, rainbowed oil. _I was never injured...my oil broke._

A moment later, a hand presses on his shoulder, and he looks up into the tired face of the same medic that had dragged him in from the medic's internal scanner sweeps over him, his face set in an unreadable, sullen demeanor. The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly, asking him a few simple questions on how he was feeling and if he felt lighthelmed, nauseous, or off in any way.

The bot shook his helm. "How close am I?" he asks as the medic moves down to his pedes, manually checking him.

"I'd say you're ready to push." the medic states quietly, anything higher and his voice would echo in the already loud cave. Voices mingled together, calls for others and shouts to those via comm. to those on the battlefield roaring through the dark, lit only by a few spotlights and adjustable light stands, cavern.

"I can't." he says. "Have you seen," he names his mate," I can't do this without him."

The medic shakes his helm. "Like it or not, this is happening. You need to push _now_ or else you can hurt both you and the sparkling. _Bad._"

His optics sting with fresh coolant, and he wags his helm like a dog even as his body is engulfed in pain. "I can't-I can't do this without him! He promised to be here, he said he would-"

"You need to listen _now_ or I'm going to have to cut you open!" the medic shouts, startling the distraught mech. "And not only do I not have all the proper tools for that here, that'll open you up to infections I don't have enough medicines to help you with nor can I do anything if you and the sparkling start to crash."

The coolant pooling in his optics slip down his cheeks, and he fights against the feeling that he _had_ to push right now much as he had the pain in the halls. The hand of the medic rests on his knee-cap, pressing gently.

"It's not all that hopeless." the medic says softly, trying to calm him before it's too late. "I can intervene if I must, but I don't want to waste the resources if I don't have to. You're mate is fine, I can tell you that just be looking at you. Your bond is strong, you'd feel if something is wrong just as he probably feels your pain now. The battle is dying down - can't you hear it? Even if he's not here to hold your hand now, he'll be here in time to hold his sparkling no matter what."

The little talk seems to have worked, his panicked vents still labored but no longer frantic. "He'll be here, though?"

"Either way." the medic promises, removing his hand. "Now, next contraction I need you to push. Alright, get ready - now."

It comes, and he does.

* * *

He's screaming, unashamed of the tears streaking his face and the keens he emits between the cries of pain. There are more medical personnel now, another medic of lower ranking and possibly a nurse or two. He can't tell, he can't see straight to count and his processor's too muddled to even try. All that he can tell is that he's doing this alone, and that it hurts.

He doesn't know how much longer he can keep doing this - this pushing. It seems so simple in theory, simply curl in and let the sparkling kick with the contractions out into the world. When read on paper, or in a pamphlet, or explained the process it doesn't seem so bad. It seems so simple, really. Until you realize that the medics and pads had forgotten to mention that there was an invisible bot with an invisible blade slicing down in him from the inside, twisting and turning the invisible blade whichever way his sadistic spark desired.

He hears the medics talking to one another, murmurs to try and keep him from hearing despite their close proximity.

"He's loosing a lot of energon."

"He's getting tired, he can't keep going on much longer."

"I don't want to perform a Cesarian on him. The chances of infection are too high, he's already so low on energon I'm not sure if we can replace it fast enough, and the tools are all unsterilized. It's barbaric."

Worse still, sending fear through his spark at the near whispered words.

"The sparkling's spark rate is dropping. It's holding, a little on the low side, but if it goes down any further-"

"His spark rate's dropping, too. They can't last forever."

He falls back against the medical berth, flush with the ground, panting heavily and barely able to catch his breath. That was it, he was done. He could feel his spark in his chassis, palpitating in his side and twitching. He could feel the sparkling as it too tired and rested, giving up the same time as he.

His pede is tapped, slapped lightly until they catch his attention. "You need to continue, just a little longer."

He sighs softly, laying his helm back and shuttering his optics. It was over, he was done. He couldn't lift his own servo let alone push so much as half-way. He had no support and no more will to continue. It was over, he was done.

He was so weak he couldn't even start as his hand was taken up, the hand dirty and warm and sticky at the tips with the resin of a fired weapon, and he opens his optics to meet the optics of his mate.

"I made it." the mech says softly, pressing his lips first to the limp hand and then to the condensation covered forehelm. "I promised you, and I did."

The medics were tapping him again, goading him to try one more time. He couldn't, it was over and he was done. He vents tiredly, turning once more to look into the optics of his mate, tired and dirty and scratched from the battlefield.

He had to be tired, too. Not nearly as tired as he was, but exhausted all the same. He had been on the battlefield, fighting denta and claw so that _he _could deliver a sparkling in safety, without some Decepticon overseeing the process or tearing the sparkling from his womb and leaving both to offline. He had fought for their safety, rushing back to the safe-place as soon as he could, having felt his mate's pain the entire time he had been trying to focus on the fight. His mate was tired, he could feel it.

And somewhere, deep within him, he found the energy to continue.

* * *

_Never_ had he felt so tired. _Ever_. It had been awful, the pain and the exhaustion and the overall feeling that he had failed and he was going to die right here in this cave, unborn sparkling still inside and mate left alone. It had been bliss, total euphoria, when the feeling of the little one slipping out and the pain eased away. He had vented in, falling back with a sigh as he fell lax at the cries of the sparkling.

His mate sat cross pede on the ground now, right beside him and leaning against the elevated part of the berth with his servos cradling the little figure. The sparkling was perfect, perfectly healthy with the most beautiful of colors that complimented both sire and carrier to the max. Right now, the sparkling slept, dazzling optics covered from the world.

"I knew you could do it." his mate whispers, twisting to kiss the tired bot's forehelm. He carefully slides one servo away from the sparkling, and slid it into his mates hand, smiling softly.

He hums sleepily. "You almost didn't make it." he says so softly a whisper would have been louder. Everything hurts, from his throat to the afterbirth pains as his protoform tries to realign itself from the sudden and violent expulsion of what it had been protecting for the last few months, but he's happy.

"But I did." his mate returns, venting in dismay as the berthed bot reaches out for his birthed child. "Can't I hold," the sparkling's name is spoken, "for just a little while longer?"

He says nothing, but his pitiful, pleading face is more than enough for his mate to relinquish his hold on the newborn and into the carrier's rightful servos. He chuckles softly to himself, breathy and weak, as his mate glares at a few bots trying to sneak forward and peep at the sparkling. The slink away defeated, and his mate settles back down.

"You know," he muses quietly after a few moments of simply watching the gentle breaths of the sleeping youngling, "they've already started work on rebuilding the _Ark_. We should be out of here before the week is up."

"Really?" he tries to be interested, but all he wants to do is go to sleep, safe in the arms of his mate with his own arms protectively wrapped about the sparkling. "That's nice."

His mate leans forward, kissing both him on his cheek and the sparkling on its helm before shaking his helm, tucking the stray warming blanket about the little one just a little more. "I've got say, you've _really_ got some bad timing."

* * *

Author's Notes - So...this is the longest 'drabble' of all so far. Nearly 15 pages by my WordPad.

No, not all the drabbles will be like this and this is the last story involving this sparkling/sparked couple. I think... I might take a request every now and then. ;)

I saw Prowl and Jazz...as per norm. I guess I could see Bluestreak with somebody else, but I'm not sure whom. I like the PxJ thing better. The sparkling is from another one of my stories ( a later chapter in 'Ratchet's Sick Days' and in the PxJ chapter of 'The Exodus'). The sparkling is the creation of a friend's of mine named Zero by Autobot Dragonfly. You can see the picture she drew of Zero on DeviantArt. A little femmeling, full discreption written in 'The Exodus'.

Can you tell I've recently seen Star Trek 2009? I almost, ALMOST, had the mate's (Jazz's, in my head) POV for a moment and kill him off like George Kirk, and not without a 'I love you, I love you, I love you, I lo-' scene.

Smile, be happy, and know that I didn't.

And on a final note, I apologize for mistakes as they are my own and this is un-beta'd as it is just drabbles. I find it very difficult to write in present verbs and first person point of views, so this is just to help me expand my writing. Any flip-flopping between verb tenses is a mistake overlooked by me, even though I try to re-read this a bunch of times and use the spell/grammar check...

Who did you imagine?


End file.
